Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

E ven though the hives were obviously empty, Harrison swore he could hear a buzzing that sounded like a swarm of bees had taken up residence in the space between his ears. Shaking his head, he laughed at the image before him. This was fine. No doubt his newly acquired wife would become bored of her hobby like all aristocratic wives. After all, she did not specify what her hobbies were. No… No, he was certain the contract said hobbies, as in many. Certainly, it had.

With a smile on his lips, he turned toward the stranger that was now bound to him for eternity. “How delightful to learn another interesting facet of you, my lady.”

Lady Phoebe seemed unaware of his words, her eyes focused on the hives, a smile forming near the corners of her mouth. She was removed from their conversation entirely; her whole being drawn to the hives like a bee to a luscious flower. She moved toward one table, her gloved finger tracing over a frame that lay open exposed to the sun.

“They’re empty,” he said, moving to stand beside her.

“Yes. I’m still looking for colonies to fill them.” She smiled as she looked at the pair. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if a colony made one of these their home all on their own?”

“Is that likely to happen?”

“It might,” she said, looking at him, “if I do it right.”

“That sounds rather mystifying.”

She frowned at him and Harrison puzzled at the display. Had he said something wrong?

“Well, I’m excited to see what comes of this,” he said to her. “May I escort you inside so you can relax after today’s festivities? Perhaps join me in some refreshments since we did not partake in breakfast?” He extended his elbow toward her, waiting for her to take it, but she shook her head instead.

“No, I think I will remain here, thank you.”

Harrison blinked, his arm still extended as his brain attempted to understand what he had heard. “You wish to stay out here?”

Lady Phoebe nodded, removing her gloves as her eyes examined the hives. “Yes. The placement of the hives isn’t quite as I’d like them to be, and I would like to speak with the gardener regarding the types of flowers I’d like for him to use around the area.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” he said, lowering his arm to his side. “You’re planning to take this section of the lawn and surround it with flowers?”

She released a small sound, a giggle that was terribly childlike in its resonance. “Of course. How else are the bees expected to nourish themselves as they settle into their homes?” she asked with a smile. She was laughing at him, but it seemed he missed the joke.

“I’m not sure why my confusion amuses you,” he said, the words filled with perplexion.

The smile on her face disappeared as swiftly as a breeze, her eyes losing any glimmer of joy they might have held. “I’m sorry, my lord,” she said softly before executing a curtsey. “Please excuse me.”

Her skirts swished with gentle dismay, as if they too were summarily dismissed, and Harrison frowned. The interaction made no logical sense. One moment she was laughing and the next, the light in her eyes disappeared as if he had admonished her, like a nursemaid does an unruly child. It was perplexing and irritating, and if he were honest, a bit saddening. What had this poor woman been up against that she mistook a simple comment of confusion for something else?

Harrison stood frozen in his spot, uncertain whether to follow and remedy whatever miscommunication they were having, or give her space to compose herself. “Better out than in,” he said, the words whispered as he took a step in the direction she had gone.

“My lord,” said Mrs. Beatley.

Smoothing the wrinkles that graced his brow, Harrison turned toward his housekeeper with his practiced smile in place. “Yes?”

The older woman glanced toward the direction of his wife, then back at him. “I had Cook start hot water for baths for you both.” She glanced once more toward where Lady Phoebe had gone and smiled gently. “But I can see her ladyship is currently preoccupied. Perhaps something to eat while she examines the gardens?”

The housekeeper’s concern was understandable. With a final glance toward his new wife, Harrison returned his gaze to the housekeeper, his tone bright as he addressed her. “My wife is rather excited over the arrival of her hives, but I’m certain once she has arranged the garden to her likings, she would enjoy a bath and some refreshments.”

She nodded her head. “Very well, my lord. I had the countess’s rooms aired and cleaned and her maid is currently settling the lady’s items to rights, so all shall be ready when she does wish to bathe.”

The sentence was simple, its tone erring on the side of bored, yet the moment his ears heard it, his heart picked up speed and his breath became labored. What surely must have been a hand gripped his throat making swallowing, let alone uttering a single word, possible. Forcing himself to nod and smile, Harrison croaked out the word good , then swiftly removed himself from the terrace.

Inside the study, he threw the lock before pouring himself two fingers of scotch and taking a seat on a plush brown leather arm chair. Sipping at the fire-like liquid, he called himself every name in the book as he forced bit by bit past his lips, willing the concoction to loosen the grip around his throat.

It was merely a bedroom. A bedroom, he reminded himself, that had been subjected to occupancy by many countesses before his time, and yet… And yet, his imprudent heart kept chiding him, reminding him that the bedroom beside his, the one meant for the Countess of Everly, had once been Meg’s when she had been his uncle’s countess. The blue papered walls covered with daisy’s, the light pink linens that graced the bed and windows had been meticulously picked out by a woman that not only no longer resided there, but had moved on. Had married another and by all appearances was happier than she ever had been. Yet the room still smelled like her, a spicy vanilla scent that hung about like a specter, and his brain would not stop replaying the image of her standing in that space, no matter how much time had passed.

He was a ridiculous man no doubt bound for Bedlam, for he could not stop thinking about a future and a wife that would never be, could not stop thinking about the moments when he should have taken a chance and not been so scared. If he had not been so afraid, had confessed that since the age of twenty he had been in love with Margaret Reedy, the Countess of Everly, his uncle’s wife, perhaps the path he had ended up on would have been different.

It took very little time for Harrison to understand that he was a sap, a lovesick dolt chasing after a woman who not only felt nothing but friendship toward him, but had fallen in love and married another man. A future duke. Scoffing, Harrison threw back the last of the drink. Oliver Ludlow’s title had very little to do with the reason Meg adored him, but Harrison was certain it helped.

And the worst part, the bitter piece he could not stomach to chew, was that if he had merely not been such a coward and spoken his true feelings for her sooner, his future quite possibly could have been different. If he had confessed to Meg that he loved her from the very beginning. If he had followed her to Woodingdean instead of staying behind as she had asked, if he had helped her repair the dilapidated manor his uncle had left her instead of merely offering funds. If he had been there before bloody Oliver Ludlow swooped in and snatched her attention…

If only. If only… It had become a bloody song in his head, a nightly ritual that chanted at him, calling him tens kinds of a dunce as he replayed every opportunity he missed. And it had been his biggest reason for agreeing to Lady Phoebe’s contractual marriage.

But now? Now Lady Phoebe was going to take residence in the final piece of Meg he had. Her scent would take over the room, sweeping the familiar vanilla spice away and replacing it with the sweet aroma of honeysuckle. She would no doubt choose new paper for the walls, new linens for the bed, and within little time, Meg’s presence in the home would be removed entirely, especially given that his uncle had made sure Meg had little say in the home’s décor. And for that, Harrison hated the man even more.

Perhaps he had not thought this marriage thing through enough, not given it the proper focus required for such a life altering decision. And now, he had a wife who surrounded his garden with bee hives and within a matter of hours would erase the final piece he had of the woman he loved. A harsh laugh broke through his lips as he heard himself, the role of Shakespearean protagonist looking less and less appealing on him each day, but no matter what he did, he was reminded of his mindlessness. Of his cowardice.

No. Perhaps this was for the best. Let Lady Phoebe cast out the final specter of Meg that resided in this house. Let her presence fill the home and banish away every remanence of the former countess. There was little sense in delaying the inevitable, and it was only right for his wife to occupy the countess’s rooms. And, like it or not, Meg would never be his countess. He would rather her be in love and happy than trapped once more in her gilded prison.

Setting the cut glass down on the sideboard, Harrison straightened his jacket, adjusted his cravat, and sighed before forcing his practiced smile back on his lips. This was fine, everything would be fine. He was moving on.

Healing, one might say.

Leaving the study, he kept the smile plastered to his face, calmly navigating through the rest of the day with his typical jovial demeanor as he attended to estate matters and periodically checked in on his new wife.

Dinner that night was an utterly awkward affair, Lady Phoebe choosing to place her focus on the meal before her rather than converse, and the silence was nearly deafening as she sat on the opposite end of the table, the distance palpable. The need for distraction from the rampant thoughts in his head was making his signature smile twitch at the corners, and even the delicious roast chicken before him did very little to help.

“How was your meeting with the gardener?” he asked, cutting the meat on his plate into several bite sized pieces.

“Beneficial,” she said, before placing a piece of carrot into her mouth with her dinner fork. In the upper corner of her place setting sat a pile of discarded silverware that Lady Phoebe had inspected before settling on the dinner fork, dinner spoon, and the knife.

Harrison’s eyebrow twitched at her one-worded answer. “What did he think of your idea for the flowers?”

“He was amenable.” In went a potato.

Placing his knife and fork to the side, Harrison forced a smile and looked at his new wife. “I’m terribly sorry, Lady Phoebe, but are you all right?” She looked at him then. “It’s only that you seem a bit out of sorts.” She frowned at him. “Is there anything I might do to help you feel more at ease?”

Lady Phoebe set down her fork, her lips pinched, eyes scanning her plate as if searching for the proper words. “I’m not used to conversing at meal times.”

“Why?” he asked.

“My attempts at conversation would make the lines between my mother’s eyebrows deepen, so I thought it best to say nothing at all.”

“Like bee mating?”

A corner of her mouth lifted. “Like bee mating.”

For Lady Phoebe, it would seem that the silence was a necessary evil, one she had acclimated to given her penchant for odd conversation topics, but for Harrison, the silence was hell. He had spent every moment in this home in utter silence with only his thoughts for company. Whether his uncle were alive or not, it mattered very little, for he was always lonely. One thing he could not do was live another moment in that home in silence.

“This is your home now, and in truth, I’d prefer conversation, even on bee mating, rather than silence. Just because this marriage of ours is contractual doesn’t mean we cannot treat one another as friends. Think of ourselves as accomplices.”

She raised a brow at him as she picked back up her fork. “Accomplices?”

Harrison took up his fork as well. “Yes. Accomplices in marriage.” He waved the fork in the air. “Coconspirators. Companions.”

She laughed then, the sound smokey. “Now you’re just saying the same thing in different fonts.” She put a piece of chicken in her mouth and eyed him. When the bite was finished, she took a sip from the wine glass before her. “Friends?” she asked, the word tentative.

Harrison nodded. “Certainly. Friends.”

The remainder of the meal carried on in comfortable conversation, Lady Phoebe’s mind working like an intricate web that on the surface, made little sense, but when one followed the string, it became crystal clear how the thoughts were connected.

“Might I ask why you’ve discarded some of your cutlery?” he asked.

Lady Phoebe frowned and she shook her head. “Those didn’t feel quite right,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“The salad fork is too small to wield and the smaller spoon doesn’t give you the right sized bite.” The words were stated simply, as if it were general knowledge.

Harrison looked down at his table setting, his eyes falling to the dinner fork in his hand. It did feel different than the salad fork, its weight more reassuring in his hand and the tines long enough to support a sufficient bite. “I see what you mean,” he said. “What else have you noticed?”

With a smile, Harrison watched his new wife talk, a beautiful smile on her face, and for the first time in a while, he felt hopeful. After all, he could be friends with his wife, and there was certainly nothing wrong with having friends.